


Siren's Call

by Entwife_Incognito



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s07e08 The Whites of His Eyes, F/M, Fear, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 15:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10744764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entwife_Incognito/pseuds/Entwife_Incognito
Summary: Tag to 708 'The Whites of His Eyes.' A very short one-shot with a very short remedy for Jane's terror and angst. Disclaimer: I own nothing about The Mentalist.Originally posted to FFnet on January 22, 2015. Now here with minor edits to improve readability.





	Siren's Call

I feel so alone. I know she won't understand—doesn't understand me. Not about this. How could she? Trauma generally, yes. Loss. Abandonment, trust, commitment. But being responsible for the horror behind that door? Never. It doesn't make me special. It makes me damaged in ways I can't control. Too damaged for Teresa, I know. My heart chokes me, strangles the hope from every corner of my mind. I can't cope, but for Teresa I try. It's for her happiness that I sacrifice mine. But it will never be enough to make her the free woman she wants to be with me. Because I am not that man.  


Tomorrow, I will betray her. That's the way she'll see it. I have to take the horrible risk. Sacrifice even her presence in my life to know that she is at least a presence in the world. Somewhere in the same world, even if absent from me. Is any of this worth the pain? I'm mired. I don't know how to get out and still have her by my side.  


She pleads with me to come back to bed, to her bed. I've given it up. I'm useless. I'm traveling paths of darkness that can never be lit. Places where I can have no partner.  


_In the thinning aura of sleep, the bed feels cold in the night. Patrick's gone. I don't hear bathroom or kitchen sounds. Then, the creaking of the bench seat at the table. He's brooding in the dark. His old demons, awakened, have stolen his sleep and soured his sweet dreams. I snap on the light, but he doesn't move at first, doesn't want to be disturbed._  


_I can't help him, over there. And he needs real help. Talking it out won't work. What he struggles with, I'm not sure. But it comes from the pit of his hell, and there is no conversation or reason there. He must come to me._  


_He probably saved my life today. Saved my arm, anyway. But he's not thinking about that. Even from the back, I can see the darkness and despair in his eyes because I've already seen it many times. The bullet hole in my jacket was a train ride straight to darkness and torment. I don't know how to help him. Where does he go? What's it like in the deep dark where there is only that door, luring him to open it again? He's terrified to pull it open and see me behind it one day. I wish I could guarantee that won't happen. All I have are promises we both know are lies. They make it worse._  


_Although he doesn't move from the table, he answers me in phrases of his dread. I love him so much. There's no way to talk him out of it. I just need him in my arms. I know how to comfort lost boys. He doesn't want to leave his demons, but he does because I call him to me. I hope I always have this power._  


_He declines my offer to sing him to sleep. I'm sure the intrusion into his anxiety makes him more anxious. It's hard to leave the pit of constant vigilance. So I start my brothers's lullaby, an old Bon Jovi anthem of confidence and the hope of facing things together no matter how bad it is. He groans, sings a made-up phrase about the pain and gives me the facepalm, but his hand is on mine before the lyric calls for it. He holds it briefly, covered and warm against his beautiful heart. He still hasn't turned to me._  


What is this song? An old rock tune. It's funny, but what twisted childhood produces this as a lullaby? I should join Teresa in her playful giggle as she reaches out to me. The times we've been alone, she's been playful most of the day. But I can't. I'm too afraid to leave this place of vigilance where every detail that could go wrong is recognized and gets at least a tentative solution.  


Her body creates a soothing rhythm. Tiny juts of her hips are counterpoint to what she does with a caressing hand on my chest. I think she samples my pulse. Over my heart. At my throat. It makes my heart beat faster, begin to make itself known in my ears and I feel warm in my pajamas. I try to follow the undulations as she moves along my side, keeping the rhythm to the song she wavers softly into my ear.  


My thoughts dip into the roil of my blood, surfacing feebly as I pretend to chase them. But my mind is on Teresa. My body is with her. When she drapes an arm limply over my chest, holding my side, I am astonished at what she can do with it. Every bit of its length caresses me, pulling across my chest, swiping upwards, sinuous, pliant to my every contour. From the hand that plays my ribs to the flesh as it slides to my neck. And she wraps her hand there to pull herself closer still. The breath of her song is all over my face, blocking out the words now.  


_Patrick begins to yield. I can at least get him to sleep. His breathing has changed, his body a small tremor of restlessness though he is still flat on his back. He sighs when I kiss his cheek. I take it as a signal to gently open and remove his clothing. He radiates heat. I don't ask him to move a muscle, but he lifts his hips when I pull the pajama bottoms off. His stout cock lengthens as I trace my fingers gently over his small nipples._  


_His hips jut towards me. I take that as a signal to climb on top of him. When I bend to pucker soft kisses onto his lips, my breasts brush his skin and then his hands are on them, his mouth asking for something more passionate. I love the way his hands feel when they cup me, cover me, knead me until I sigh. Not here to play or start a marathon, I'm plenty wet. When I imagine him inside me, something thumps in my core and my muscles grip, looking for the hard flesh that fills them so well._  


_He groans and forcefully thumbs my nipples as I sink over him. Every time we join, it's like coming home. My movements are efficient, the goal to release us as quickly as possible. Patrick needs his rest. At least I've already had some._  


_When I come it is sweet and flows everywhere in my body at once. I savor it briefly, then ride him harder, through the spasms that he loves to feel all around his tumescent flesh. Suddenly he gasps and grabs my hips, forcing them hard against his, smiling and huffing the pleasure of his release, eyes closed in bliss._  


My heart calls to her as I empty into her snug flesh. Teresa. Teresa! You are everything to me. I fold her into my embrace and rest her on top of my warm body, her hair falling in tickles on my arms. She wriggles in my clinging embrace but stays, unfettered when I loosen my grip. But I'm fading. Sleep. I'm sliding into blessed oblivion with my last thoughts. I love you, Teresa. Please don't hate me tomorrow.


End file.
